


until i find you again

by earlgrey_milktea



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, bc i'm a sucker at heart, non-accurate depiction of historical elements, temporary/multiple character deaths bc reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6541678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“There once was an owl god, who brings good fortune to those that prayed to him. He fell in love with a mortal, and decided to give up being a god to live as a human for his one true love. Except, in order to become human, his memories are erased each time he is reborn and they are reincarnated for ages and ages until they find each other and live happily ever after.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>in which akaashi and bokuto go through life after life trying to find each other in the right time, the right circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until i find you again

**Author's Note:**

> started as a prompt for bokuakaweek, somehow ended up as this monster of angst
> 
> heads up:  
> -implied/mentioned acts of violence, blood  
> -inaccurate depictions of historical times (should be mostly chronological, though)

It all starts many, many years ago.

Back when the roads were more like trodden paths and the trees ruled the land, when humans lived in peace with the earth, gods walked the lands amongst the mortals without fear. They don’t always reveal themselves, but nonetheless the mortals knew they were there. And, like all legends go, they worshipped the gods. They built shrines, temples, dedicated their livelihoods to appease the gods only few of them were lucky enough to see. They prayed, and the gods answered. It was harmony.

You were one of those gods, once upon a time. 

The shrine they gave you was small, but it was always kept in good condition. You brought good fortune for those that show up every morning to pray diligently, you took care of them and made sure they stayed healthy and safe. Your powers weren’t anything to be sung about, but the land responded to you well enough, and you could roam about as you pleased. Most often, you took the form of an owl, able to watch over your subjects from afar.

You’d lost track of how many years it’s been since you settled down to bless this small village, but you’ll never forget the first time you ever laid eyes on him.

He’s smaller than all the other kids in the village, but had a voice louder than any of them. He seemed to wear a smile like it’s a permanent part of him, his hair wild and unable to be brushed down, but despite his loud appearance, it’s his eyes that caught your attention. They’re wide, round, and breathtakingly gold. You’d never seen anything more bright, more full of life. Inexplicably, you were drawn to him like birds were to the sky.

They called him the village idiot, because he knew only how to laugh and could never stay still for more than a few minutes. They called him hopeless, because his body would never grow to be strong like the other children, because coughs rattled his scrawny frame at night, because his parents weren’t there to pray for him. 

That didn’t stop you from following him as he explored the forests by himself during the day. You approached him in your owl form, and he welcomed you with a warmth you never knew as a god, distant and jaded from time. He wasn’t very good at keeping track of his one-sided conversation, prone to being distracted by butterflies and coughing fits, but you reveled in his company like you’d never done before. You’d never met a human whose soul shone as brightly as this; he seemed to glow faintly, and you’d think he was a spiritual being of some sort if you didn’t know better.

Until one morning, you stepped out from your shrine to find your favourite light dashed, shattered, silenced. 

An offering, the humans said, because the sun had shone too long and their crops had remained empty. An offering, the humans said, shielding their eyes from the bloodied dagger and the dark splatters across the courtyard floor. An offering, the humans said, kneeling before the lifeless body of a boy who would never have lived past his teen years but had no way of defending himself against the harsh intentions of the entire village. An offering, the humans said, and you wept for the first time since you woke up with prayers in your ear and blessings to give in your hand.

That night, you turned into an owl for the last time, and flew and flew until your wings grew tired and the moonlight welcomed you home. You kneeled before the silver-haired god and his crow companion, touching your forehead to the floor.

“I wish to be reincarnated,” you said, raising your eyes until you meet hazel ones, calm with ages and ages of wisdom, “as a human.”

The god considered you with kindness in his eyes. “You might end up like Oikawa, you know?”

You nodded, having heard of your fellow immortal friend that gave up his godhood to follow a dark-haired warrior that stole his heart some centuries ago. You hadn’t heard from him since, though rumours said he was still searching, life after life after life, for his warrior. 

“Your memories will be erased with every cycle,” the god before you said, rising from his throne. The crow lifted from his shoulder, circling your head. “Your powers, of course, will be gone forever. He won’t remember anything, either. There’s nothing I can do to make sure you find each other, only promise that the cycles don’t end until you reach a lifetime where you find him at the right time, the right circumstances.” He gave you a soft smile, his eyes still so impossibly kind you almost wanted to cry again. “Good luck, Keiji.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, before the crow landed on your head and a swirl of snow blinded you.

 

 

You are the son of a farmer, dreaming of escaping this dead-end town, feeling this tug in your heart for something more, for someone more. You can’t explain it, and maybe it’s the dullness of growing up with the exact same people you’ve known since you were a child, but you have a feeling there’s something out there waiting for you. 

When your father falls ill, you have no choice but to stay and take care of him. You are a good son, a good farmer, a good worker. You spend your days looking out from the fields, chasing away the crows that watch you from the distance, trying to see the horizon. The moon is your only company when your dreams flash gold and silver, filling you with a yearning you can’t describe. But nothing ever comes, and nothing goes. 

On his deathbed, your father grasps your hand. “I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I kept you from leaving.”

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault. It just isn’t the right time.” 

For some reason, those words ring true in your mind. The weight doesn’t lift from your chest, and you never make it out of that town, but you close your eyes with the feeling that you’ll have another chance.

 

 

You meet him on the wrong side of the blade. 

His clan is at war with yours, and you are only obeying orders because you’ve been trained to hold a sword in your hands since you could walk. You are not the next in line, therefore you are expendable. But it doesn't matter. 

It never mattered, you realize, when there is sweat and blood dripping into your eyes and your arms are starting to tremble from parrying all his attacks and he’s wearing a grin as fierce as the crest of the owl on your master’s sword, it never mattered because there he is in front of you, golden eyes bright and setting your soul on fire.

In this life, he slays you before you have a chance to remember where you have seen those eyes before. In this life, he stands over your bloodied body, a samurai victorious, while above you, a single crow spreads its wings and flies away. 

 

 

You are one of the many wives the emperor has taken. While the palace provides you with endless foods and beautiful silks, you find yourself staring out into the distance when the moon streams in through your window. You’ve always wanted something more, someone more. The emperor has only called for you once since you arrived at the palace. You don’t want to provide him a child, but you know that is the only way for you to stay alive here.

He is the general of the east, and while he is young, his gold eyes glitter with fierce determination, unspeakable strength, and a desire to please his emperor. You fall in love with him the way the moon rises every night, surely, doubtlessly, inevitably. 

But in the palace there are eyes everywhere, and while your chest burns when his eyes rest upon you and your soul seems to light up when he touches you, eventually he is caught and made to stand before the emperor and the emperor’s men. You can only watch, helplessly, trapped in your seat by the emperor’s side as they cut him down.

Before the blade swings down, he meets your eye, and the piercing gold sends one last shiver down your spine. Crows lift off from the palace roofs as the life seeps out from his eyes, and you are doomed to the dungeons with black feathers fluttering down.

 

 

The air is hazy with smoke and the smell of tobacco, filled with the sounds of drunken slurs and giggling and muffled moans. 

You scan the room, sipping at your own glass of alcohol half-heartedly. It’s not your idea to come here, it never is, but there is nothing you can do as a subordinate. Your companions and your boss has already disappeared somewhere with pretty, made-up girls smelling of cheap perfume. 

“Hey there,” a husky voice purrs in your ear. 

Glancing to your left, you see a tall, well-endowed woman in a long moon-silver  _ susohiki _ sitting next to you. She leans forward to pour more alcohol into your cup, allowing a generous view of her breasts from where the smooth fabric is tied loosely around her waist. She glances up at you from under her long lashes, and you nearly jolt when golden eyes meet yours. 

“Would it be alright for me to accompany you tonight?” she asks, her voice still that low, smoky sound, sending shivers down your spine for reasons unknown to you. 

You’re still transfixed by those eyes. They seem familiar somehow, though you can swear you’ve never seen this woman in your entire life. 

“Your eyes,” you breathe, and you watch as she blinks, startled. 

She reaches up immediately, bringing a hand to cover her face. “Sorry,” she says, the purr disappearing from her voice. “They’re weird, aren’t they? But I was born with them, the others say maybe it’s because of my mixed blood, but I don’t know. I don’t know who my father is, see, so maybe it is that bastard’s fault. Sorry, I shouldn’t swear, they said it turns off the customers... I’ll find you another girl if my eyes make you uncomfortable---”

You reach out a hand to stop her from leaving, recovering from the assault of words coming from her mouth. “No,” you tell her, meeting her gaze again. “Your eyes. They’re beautiful.”

Golden eyes stare into your own, and you can feel your heart pounding against your ribcage, a pang of something you can’t name. You’ve never seen this woman in your entire life, but something about those eyes and the way her hand fits around your own and the way her skin slides smoothly against yours and the way her mouth feels on yours and the way her touch ignites a fire in your bones and the way she shivers under your own touch-----it feels right.

Until the moonlight fades and you leave with your boss, leaving behind only the memory of golden eyes searing into yours, no match for the coins of gold you leave on the tray inside her room.

 

 

The roads are long and your feet are weary, but still you press on, an unexplainable burning in your heart to keep travelling the roads. Searching, searching, for something you’re not sure you’ll be able to find.

Your dreams are continuously haunted by flashes of gold. No matter how far you travel, how much you reach, the twin spots of gold are always out of your reach, leaving you in darkness. It’s unpleasant. You wonder if you’ve been cursed.

In your seventh year of travel, you stumble upon a small village in the forest. The people are friendly enough, though you barely speak their language. They liked your music, and that’s enough for you to earn a place to stay and food to eat. You’ve been on the road for so long, a rest sounds heavenly.

There’s a small hand tugging at your sleeve. A boy is standing beside you, babbling excitedly. You don’t understand, but it doesn’t curb his enthusiasm. He jumps up and down, his voice loud and clear as the blue sky above you. You’re smiling at his excitement when you catch sight of his eyes hidden under that mess of shaggy grey-and-black hair. You nearly drop your instrument.

They’re large, round, and inexcusably gold. They look like the ones in your dream, the ones that flash like stars when the moon is full, and you can feel your heart jumping a little at the realization, except for one thing.

The boy is blind. 

You spend the rest of your days in the village, playing song after song for the boy with the dull gold eyes, who never seems to tire of your melodies. He smiles at you even though you can barely communicate with him. Something in your chest stirs at the radiance of that smile. At the same time, something in you feels like crying. You do not understand why. And you never find out.

 

 

You are the daughter of a noble, but you don’t feel like one. 

Quietly, you suffer through the frilly dresses and dance lessons, but mostly you daydream about when your tutor finally lets you go for the afternoon, and you slip into a pair of trousers you managed to nab from the servant’s quarters, tying up your hair until it’s gone from your sight so you can pretend it’s shorter than is acceptable on a lady-to-be.

There’s a boy around your age, the child of one of the gardeners, who waits for you by the back entrance. He has eyes as gold as the setting sun, and a smile to rival the rising sun. He talks a mile a minute but he takes your hand without hesitation and treats you like you’re tough, like you’re a force to be reckoned with, like  _ wow, you’re the man _ . He makes you feel happy and whole in the way nobody has ever done.

In this life, you are fifteen, barely a woman physically and wanting to be a man so badly when he is ripped from your world. You don’t have a chance to say goodbye, carted off to marry a man you’ve never met and have no interest in meeting. He can’t write letters, you haven’t managed to teach him how to read more than letters, and you hold back tears at the thought of having to live a life you know doesn’t belong to you. 

Mostly you hold back tears at the thought of leaving your best and only friend behind.

 

 

The sounds of pained groans and wheezing breaths and agonized sobbing have been so constant you can’t remember days when you didn’t hear this miserable cacophony. 

There’s no time to complain, as stretchers are being rushed in relentlessly and covered bodies are being wheeled out helplessly. Your pristine white nurse’s clothes have been bleached twice over but the stains and smell of blood and disinfectant remain a permanent fixture in your mind. 

“Another one coming through! You, there, come here and help!”

“Yes, ma’am!” 

You grab as many rolls of bandages as you can, hurrying over to where the head nurse is bending over the newest addition to this infirmary ward. You almost drop the bandages when you catch sight of the soldier on the bed. 

His entire left side is a bloody, mangled mess, and his breaths come in uneven, shuddering gasps. He still has both of his legs, but there’s a large cut down the left side of his face, something sharp and sudden. You recognize the effects of a bombing. 

You also recognize a man on his deathbed. 

The head nurse turns to you, her mouth a thin, weary line. “He’s still awake,” she says, and that’s all you need to know.

You stride over, composing your face so it doesn’t betray the severity of the damage to this poor man’s body. “Hello,” you tell him, taking hold of his hand. “I’m a nurse, you are safe here. You’re going to be okay.”

He barely seems to register you, gasping in fruitlessly, eyes fluttering open and shut, open and shut. Then they snap open suddenly, and pin you to the spot. You nearly gasp at the intensity in his gaze. 

“Kuroo,” he gasps, a thin line of blood trickling from his lips. “Is---is he---did he---he can’t die, he has---Kenma’s home---waiting, I tried---please----”

You don’t know who he’s talking about, of course you don’t. You squeeze his hand, and he pauses slightly at the action, his breath catching in his throat. “He’s fine,” you tell him, even though there is no way for you to know whether that is a lie or not. “He’s fine. You’re fine. You’re safe now. It’s okay.” You can only repeat those words over and over, even if they’ve long since lost their meaning for you after losing count of how many men have died in your hands just like this.

He grips your hand so hard you know it will leave bruises behind. He coughs, a clogged, wet sound. He’s staring up at you again, his eyes bright and steady, and for a moment you can almost glimpse the strong vibrant man he used to be. But he’s still bleeding heavily and he probably only had minutes left. There is nothing you can do.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so clearly you can almost pretend he’s not delirious and on the verge of death. “This life isn’t the right timing either.”

At four thirty-eight in the morning, when the moonlight is beginning to fade, another man dies in your arms. 

Six hours later, as you take your last breath after another bomb raid, the last thing you remember is the brilliant gold of his eyes as he promises you and him will find each other again.

Above the wreckage of the makeshift hospital, black crows sing a haunting melody.

 

 

No matter how much you mix the paint, you can never find the right colour. It’s wrong. Always wrong. 

Frustrated, you throw out the palette again. The room is full of discarded palettes and empty tubes of yellow and white and orange and red. Half-finished paintings line the walls, of the waning moon and crows in flight, but your latest canvas remains dauntingly empty. It’s hopeless, you know, but nothing can stop you from trying to recreate the vibrant gold eyes that have haunted your dreams for as long as you can remember.

The floorboards behind you are vibrating. Footsteps. Sighing to yourself, you turn. Your father’s butler is holding out a slate, with the neatly written words summoning you to dinner. You nod at him, and he bows back out the door. You don’t want to go to dinner, knowing it will just be a terribly awkward ordeal with everybody seated around the long elegant table and stifling silence that even if you can’t hear you can still feel like a blanket of dust on your skin. It’s uncomfortable. 

Putting away your paintbrush, you make your way down the stairs to the dining hall. There’s a guest. You stop, frowning at the back of the unfamiliar head. You dislike having guests because they always treat you like a zoo animal or a very dumb child, even though you are not dumb, far from it, only dumb in the ears.

But as your father’s only son, you lift your chin and sit at the table across from the guest. Only when you’re seated do you look up to meet his eyes, and that is when you stop breathing. 

Those golden eyes. They’re real.

_ This is the son of one of my friends,  _ your father writes down for you.  _ He is to marry your sister Yukie next spring.  _

_ HELLO!  _ The boy writes, his scrawl messy.  _ NICE TO MEET YOU, FUTURE BROTHER-IN-LAW!  _

You stare into those bright gold eyes, and wonder why your heart is squeezing painfully so. You never find the right colour.

 

 

You wake to the sound of purring in your ears.

A lump of black fur covers your vision, and slowly, you push at it. It moves, startling you slightly, but not as much as the loud voice yelling, “Kuroo! Kuroo, what are you doing in somebody else’s bed!”

It takes you several tries before you manage to sit up properly, and the cat on your chest slips off the narrow bed, padding across the pristine white tiles to the boy standing just inside your room. You blink at your surprise visitors.

“Stupid cat,” the boy says, a fond expression on his face as he picks the cat up. He looks at you, smiling. “Sorry about that, my cat likes to wander off. I hope he didn’t disturb you too much.”

You shake your head slightly, stopping after two shakes because it makes you dizzy. “He was warm,” you say, and then you pause, not sure why you said that.

The boy blinks. He ventures closer, the cat curling up in his arms. “Are you cold? You look pale, but like, that might because you’re, well, sick... But I don’t mean that in a bad way! Are you cold? Should I ask them to turn up the heat? It was really really cold in Kenma’s room, so maybe it’s the building’s problem? Do you want me to turn up the heat? Oh! Or do you want Kuroo to lean on you again? He seems to like you!”

You’re a bit taken aback by how talkative the boy is. “It’s okay,” you say. 

He pulls up the chair by your bedside. “Well, I can keep you company to distract you from the cold, if you want.”

“Okay,” you find yourself agreeing, despite how you’ve refused any visitors for the last two weeks. What’s the point, you thought, when you weren’t going to leave this place ever again.

He comes to visit you every day after that, and you find yourself looking forward to his company. He tells you about his classes, the antics his cat gets up to, how he’s really liking volleyball, and how his friend Kenma is recovering slowly. You smile at his stories, content with just watching his enthusiastic hand gestures and the way his gold eyes shine brighter when he’s excited. You really like his eyes. You fall asleep with the moonlight bright, dreaming of even brighter eyes.

But eventually, even he can’t ignore how much weaker you’ve gotten. 

On his last visit, he holds your hand. You don’t tell him how holding his hand warms you up more than any blanket or building thermostat ever did. He stares at you with those gold eyes and smiles at you, though this time his smile is tinged with sadness.

“You know, I might’ve stumbled into your room by accident... But I feel like I’ve known you for a long time,” he confesses. 

You nod, wanting to tell him  _ me too _ , but your strength has long since diminished. 

He smiles again, but there’s something wet in his eyes. “Thanks for being my friend. I wish I could have found you earlier.” He reaches out, brushing your hair from your face. His voice cracks when he says, “Get better soon?”

You never see him again.

 

 

In this life, you fall in love with him in college. 

Both of you are the first in your family to have a chance at a post-secondary education, and you take it seriously. But when your roommate sings offkey in the shower to some American song about blue suede shoes, when he brings you an extra meat bun from the vendor down the street, when you wake up to find he’s already getting changed and that broad, broad back is just there for your eyes to feast on, there’s no helping your distraction.

You write home about how much you’re learning, how bright your future might be. You write to yourself about how sturdy a back can look, how warm a body can feel, how beautiful gold eyes can be. But you pretend this infatuation is just a phase.

Until you both come back to your dorm drunk after a party, the moonlight streaming in through the open window, and between stumbling through the door and taking off your shoes, you end up on his bed, shirt unbuttoned and his lips on yours and tongue sliding against your own and oh, how warm his hands are against your bare skin, how violent the fire below your belly can burn at the touch of a fingertip. You remember gold eyes like fireflies in the dark, burnt into your memories just like the touches he leaves behind, like the lovebites you mark into his skin, like the liquid fire he sets to your veins. The two of you fall asleep entangled within each other’s warmth, only waking at the caw of a crow outside the window.

You write letters to him until you take your last breath, surrounded by your grandkids and their families. You never sent them, but in your dreams, you remember.

 

 

When the soldiers come for your family, the first thought you had was of him. 

He must be halfway across the world by now, dressed in the army slacks and facing the horizons with that fiercely determined look in his gold, gold eyes. A letter arrived from him a month ago, his messy scrawl telling of how different European soil is compared to home, how everyone still speaks english but uses entirely different slang, how cramped and crowded the soldiers’ quarters are, how excited he is to be serving his country straight and proud, to be on the front lines defeating the Germans. He didn’t talk about how they separated all the soldiers of Asian descent, even if they were born and raised on American soil. He didn’t talk about the harsh conditions of preparing for battle, the risks and dangers of handling a weapon and being made to sacrifice himself for a country that still dares to call him a spy.

You know this though, and you knew they were coming for your family soon enough. Yet you still managed to let him slip through your fingers, unable to convince him to stay, to not sign up for the army, he’s only eighteen, still a boy, sometimes more so than your own seventeen summers. 

“I’ll see you on the other side,” he promises, kissing your knuckles behind the train station, away from prying eyes. 

You press a stopwatch into his hands, the one your great-grandfather made by hand and passed down to you. “A token,” you whisper, ignoring the way your heart feels like it’s breaking into pieces inside your chest, “to remember me, to remember us.”

Years later, when they finally release you from the camps without any further comments, you receive a small box with a single stopwatch inside. 

 

 

You are a happily married wife, or so you think, until you meet your next door neighbour. She’s loud, excitable, and has an arsenal of stories that you can never seem to tire of. Both you and your husband find her company enjoyable, albeit a bit tiring at times. But for some reason, those gold eyes of hers draw you in more than anything and anyone has ever done. 

You feel guilty, because even your husband has never stirred this part of your chest like this before. You were brought up in a traditionalist family, but most nights, when the moon is out, you find yourself dreaming of strong hands, infectious laughter, and brilliant gold eyes.

“You really like her, huh?” your husband comments one day, over breakfast. His narrow dark eyes find yours above his newspaper, and you flush slightly, in a way that has nothing to do with the familiarity of your marriage.

“She’s an interesting character, Aki,” you reply softly, focusing on scooping more rice into his bowl.

When he only hums in response, you place the bowl in front of him, and lean over to kiss his cheek. You brush back his neat blond hair, and he turns his head to kiss you back. You try your hardest to put thoughts of your neighbour out of your mind.

 

 

“There once was an owl god, who brings good fortune to those that prayed to him. He fell in love with a mortal, and decided to give up being a god to live as a human for his one true love. Except, in order to become human, his memories are erased each time he is reborn and they are reincarnated for ages and ages until they find each other and live happily ever after.”

You frown. For some reason, you don’t like this story.

“I don’t like this story,” a kid behind you whines, one hand twirling his chocolate brown curls. His brown eyes flash unhappily, and silently, you agree with his sentiments.

“What? How come? There’s owls involved! It’s romantic!”

You look back at your sensei, who has his bottom lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout. Even his black-and-grey hair seems to wilt a little at the little enthusiasm received at his story. Sighing quietly, you raise your hand.

“Do they find each other?” you ask, while the kid behind you scoffs.

Sensei frowns at the book in his hands. “It doesn’t really say...”

“Happily-ever-afters don’t exist!” the kid behind you pipes up again, tossing his curls. The girls beside him giggle and agree. He crosses his arms, a serious frown on his face. “If their memories are always erased, how the heck are they supposed to find each other? And even if they do, how you do know they’ll be able to stay together?”

“Stop being so negative,” the dark-haired boy beside him says, rolling his eyes. “If he’s a god, fate will help them.”

“Eh, you believe in fate? How cute, Iwa-chan~!”

“Shut up, Trashykawa.”

“Sensei! Iwa-chan is being mean!”

You watch quietly as sensei tries to calm the other kids. He’s like a big kid himself, wit how often he laughs and gets all excited so his eyes light up. You wonder how he ever became a teacher that way. But he treats you all like you’re smart, instead of what adults usually do, so you suppose he’s a good sensei after all. That story though, for some reason it really bothers you. 

“It’s not fair,” you say quietly, “searching for so long is tiring. It’s not fair.”

“What’s that, Kei-chan? You have a question?”

“No, sensei. And it’s Keiji- _ kun _ .”

“Yes, yes. Now gather up, children, it’s numbers time! Whoever answers the most questions correctly shall win a prize!”

 

 

In this life, you find him too late. 

His gravestone is filled with flowers from friends and family, and you stand before it with unshed tears in your eyes. You never knew him, but gods, how you wished you did. You can’t really explain why this stranger of a man halfway across the world should affect you so, but just as certain as you know the moon shows up every night, you know he is the reason for your long, long journey. Your friends had chalked it up to wanderlust, but you know now that you’ve been searching for him all your life. 

Only, the search has proved fruitless once more.

In the distance, a crow caws.

 

 

He’s the son of a successful entrepreneur, and you’re only a photographer-wanna-be. You should have known better.

But he makes you happy, in a way you’ve never really known before. You like the way he can recount the shenanigans he gets up to with his friend Kuroo as if they are the most amazing stories ever told, you like the way he laughs with his whole body, you like the way his gold eyes light up when he looks at you. You like him. You like him.

He makes you feel whole. It’s like there was a part of you that was missing and you didn’t even know until he walked into your life and filled it. He makes you feel like the world has nothing on the both of you, like with him by your side nothing can go wrong. 

Maybe that’s why you let your guard down so much. You knew his dad hated you, for daring to drag his son down, for corrupting his son. But you ignored it all because now you’ve found him, you’re not about to let him go. For some reason, you feel like if you let him go, you’ll never find someone like him in your lifetime ever again.

In the end, you don’t see it coming. You’re walking home from his place when someone comes up from behind you in the empty streets. The only warning you have is the single crow flying low across your vision, but even then, it’s too late. You bleed out in the empty street, flickering streetlight above you, nearly blocking out the half-moon. 

Your last thought doesn’t make sense to you, but it makes you sad all the same. 

_ Not the right timing this time, either...  _

 

 

You are only there to accompany your friend, who seems to have made friends with one of the bartenders, the one with the ridiculous smirk and even more ridiculous bed hair. You wonder how that even happened, considering Kenma hates loud crowded places, but he looks happy under the shower of affection the bartender gives him, so you leave him be.

Only, it seems the man on the stool next to you seems to have had a bad day, groaning and moaning over a line of empty glasses. When he looks like he’s about to fall off the stool, you prod him.

He looks up, and your world stops. Even slightly unfocused from the alcohol, his eyes shine a brilliant shade of gold, and it seems to tug at something just under your breastbone. 

You end up following him home, telling yourself that he’s too drunk to make it otherwise, but you can’t deny the pull you feel towards this stranger. He talks and talks and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol but you can’t help but smile at the way his expression changes drastically at every story. His arm feels warm against your shoulder.

The next morning, you wake up next to him on the bed, only to find him staring down at you with a terribly serious frown.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, and you feel your chest squeezing tight. “I have a fiancee.”

You walk home in a daze, gold eyes appearing every time you blink. You don’t run into anyone, only a lone crow sitting atop a streetlight, watching you stumble home, feeling heartbroken over someone you don’t even know.

 

 

In this life, he’s your bestest friend in the world. You’ve known him since childhood, and even if he’s impossibly loud and ridiculously moody at times, he’s a constant in your life and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your classmate Tooru thinks he looks like an owl but you only shrug, choosing not to comment on the way Tooru’s expression is almost wistful when he looks at the two of you. 

You’ve been together for nearly a decade, and that’s a long time to a teenager. You can’t even grasp how long that’s been, but you know that you want it to be longer and longer. Forever doesn’t sound too bad if it’s with your best friend in the whole world by your side.

Except you must not have been wishing hard enough, because one phone call rips apart life as you know it. Everyone keeps you away from the scene of the accident, but your imagination is enough to picture the sound of impact, the crunch of metal hitting flesh and bone, the splatter of blood on concrete road. You hear the startled caws of a murder of crows in your nightmares, mingling with the screech of tires and the anguished scream that might be him, or it might be you, you never find out.

The picture they choose for the funeral does no justice for those vibrant gold eyes of his.

 

 

In this life, you are a normal city boy, born and raised in Tokyo. You’re quiet, and you like rice balls and a sport called volleyball. You don’t ask for much, but there’s a restless in your heart for as long as you remember. 

You meet him in your first year of senior high. The first thing you see are two bright eyes, gold as the sunlight that streams in through your window every morning, so round and so full of life. When he rests his eyes on you, you feel like puzzle pieces to a jigsaw you didn’t know you were solving are finally falling into place. You feel like coming home after a long, tiring journey.

In this life, you are Akaashi Keiji, first year setter in the Fukurodani Volleyball Club, and he is Bokuto Koutarou, second year wing spiker. When he smiles at you for the first time, involuntary tears prick at your eyes and you don’t know why. He calls your name loudly without fear, and you answer gladly without hesitation. 

In this life, you find him, and you don’t let go. 

 

  
Miles away, the crows rise, and the moon finally rests. 

**Author's Note:**

> ... for a fic about our fave volleyowls, there sure is a lot of crows lmao oops
> 
>  
> 
> tumblr @ puddingcatbae  
> twitter @ puddingcatbae


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